


Oft expectation fails

by Ambrose



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose/pseuds/Ambrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Paris won the fight against Romeo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oft expectation fails

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with the Italian production in mind, and because Paris may not be such a bad guy as we often make him out to be.

Everything was dark and cold, and for a moment Juliet wondered whether the Friar's plan had failed. Was she dead? Was this Hell, her punishment for disobeying a father and attempting suicide – albeit one she thought would not last – ?

Then she felt the stone underneath her and, moving slowly, probing her surroundings, she realised she was on a tomb, set as a recumbent statue on her own grave. _It worked then!_ Romeo would be there soon, and they could leave this place, the feud – and live happily! _Someplace warm!_ she smiled as she shivered, and wrapped her arms around her for warmth in the chill of the crypt.

She heard a noise at the far end and ran there, sweeping a candle from her beloved cousin's grave to find her way in the surrounding darkness – those around hers seemed to have been knocked out, for some strange reason.

“Romeo?” She whispered as she neared the place where the sound had come from. She wasn't so sure now, whether it had been such a good idea. She should have played dead until he arrived; What if it was her mother? What would she do then?

She was taking a silent step back when she heard a noise again. A distinct sob this time – on the other side of a pillar.

“Who are you? Show yourself!”

“I can't move,” said a low, quavering voice. She followed the sound, giving the pillar a wide berth in case whoever that was – certainly not Romeo, she'd have recognized her husband's lovely voice anywhere – decided to attack her.

He was on the floor, his back to the pillar, blood tainting his white shirt – Paris.

“Juliet?” Horror and surprise were mixed in his voice.

She took a step back – and that's when she saw it – a body on the floor, face down – and in spite of the dim light she'd have sworn he was clad in the same clothes as Romeo on the day of his exile.

And then she saw the blood pooling around him.

“No!” she cried as she threw herself towards him, almost dropping the candle in the process. “Romeo? Romeo are you alright? Romeo, wake up! Please, wake up! Stay with me! You can't leave me alone here!”

But Romeo's body, covered in blood, was already lifeless.

And then it dawned on her. The looked up at Paris – that man she despised, whom her father had tried to marry her to, with whom she'd be condemned to spend the rest of her life with if they were found; that man who probably only saw her as a trophee for parade, a tool to work his way into the right society, and a plaything to warm his bed! And there he was, lying in her husband's blood, a drawn sword not far from his hand.

“You!” She screamed, throwing herself at him, striking his chest with her fists.

Then, as he did not move, she realised what she was doing and backed away, scared at herself. He was wounded as well; barely a moan had escaped him when she struck him. And she did not know what had happened. What if there had been another intruder? He might have killed her husband, but it would not be said that Capulets were cowards who took revenge on wounded, helpless men!

“You loved him,” he let out, barely a whisper.

“I'm sorry,” he went on when she did not answer. “I did not know. I'd have... I'd have let you... You should have told me... ” He breathed out, his voice more and more drawn out with each sentence. “I thought you were dead, I was... praying. He came in like a whirlwind, and I thought he... meant to desecrate your body... I'm sorry. Now I'm going to die for my mistake, and you'll have your revenge!”

“Don't you dare!” she cried, slapping him so he'd stay awake. “You're going to live, you owe me a life, you're going to live! _I_ 'm the one who decides whether you live or die, do you hear me?”

At that point she did not know whether she wanted him to die, really, but she sure as hell did not want to be alone in that crypt with two dead bodies.

That's when Friar Lawrence arrived, Benvolio at his heels, who kneeled against her while the Friar checked on Romeo.

“You're too late,” Juliet whispered, she saw the look on Benvolio's face as he understood her meaning.

“We can't stay here,” the Friar informed them while tending to Paris's wound as much as he could.

“I'm not leaving Romeo!” Juliet objected.

“We're not leaving him,” Benvolio acquiesced. He took his cousin's body in his arms.

“Benvolio! You must help Paris out first! We don't have time!”

But Benvolio categorically refused. There was already noise outside, the guards would find him soon enough and help him – whereas they'd only accuse Romeo of more crimes. The holy man had to agree.

 

A few days passed, and Juliet was kept under close surveillance at Lawrence's cell, for fear she'd harm herself.

Strangely, Paris had not told on them, for nothing had been done against the Friar, and no-one had tried to get Juliet back.

It was the first time in over a week that she was left alone, as it had become clear that she had resigned herself to live, and Benvolio had had to rush to a meeting with the Prince at a time when the Friar was officiating. She was remembering, as she was wont to do in her idle time, the few, fleeting moments she'd shared with Romeo, when she heard a knock.

She tried to ignore it: she could not open, she was supposed to be dead, and if ever she were seen... But whoever it was was persistent, and the noise did not stop.

She carefully checked through the window, and recognized Paris's tall figure. What did he want, was he there to claim her, to drag her back to her father? Was it wise to let him in while she was alone?

He was pleading for someone to open, to hear him out. In spite of her doubts, she unlocked the door, waiting behind the wooden panel for him to come in, so she would not be seen by some nosy neighbour – and closed the door behind him. She leaned against it, eyeing Paris carefully, but intent on not showing any emotion.

“Juliet? You're still here?”

He must have seen her nonplussed expression and realised the stupidity of his question, for he explained: “I expected you to be long gone – I thought I'd find the friar here, and I...”

“He's not here,” she stopped him mid-sentence. “You'll have to come back later.” She made to open the door for him.

“No, you don't understand. I thought I would ask him to carry a message. To you. I'm glad you're still here – although it's probably a reckless course of action.”

She raised an eyebrow, careful not to show any more interest than he really deserved. And who was he to make judgements on her actions?

“I merely wanted to assure you that your secret is safe with me. I would not want you to look over your shoulder all your life, wondering when I'll decide to come forward and ruin everything – I believe I did enough in way of that already.” He paused, studying her features. “You saved my life, Juliet, in that crypt – when you decided not to kill me. You could have – I deserved it, and there isn't a day I do not regret my careless acts.”

“Do you think you should be the one talking about regrets? _You killed my husband_!”she yelled at him.

He took a step back, surprised by her sudden access of rage, and also in part by this new information.

“Hurting you was the last thing I wanted,” he said, looking at his feet. “I just wanted to marry you, to keep you from being hurt by the feud – you'd have been part of the Prince's family, you'd have been safe! I wanted to make you happy.” He looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. “But I only made it worse, didn't I? I wish you could forgive me. But I know it's impossible. And my help is probably the last thing you want from me, but I'll do whatever is in my power to help you. If there's ever anything I can do for you...”

“Leave.” She did not want to see him, did not want to hear his petty excuses and what sounded very much like a defence of his own qualities against Romeo. She felt he did not mean to hurt her, but he did, and she could not stand that. Even if there was hurt in his eyes at her words. She would not feel sorry for him. He was alive. He had his life ahead of him, something her husband never had – he could do what she wanted when she would have to hide and fear being recognized all her life – he was all she hated and she wanted him gone; she knew that if he stayed much longer, the void left in her heart by her lover's death would be filled with rage and anger, and she knew that he did not really deserve her contempt.

When he passed through the door, he turned around and said, “Take care! I hope you can be happy!”

Yes, maybe he wasn't so bad. And maybe one day she could forgive. But that was not the day, and she did not want to let him believe so. Deceit had brought too much ill in her life for her to lie again as lightly. She watched him leave, wondering what he'd become – and what she'd do, now. She would have to leave Verona, build a new life elsewhere, on her own.

When Benvolio came back, she did not tell him. It was something best left unsaid, she felt. Something that belonged only to herself. Her own story, a conclusion to a part of her life she could now leave behind without regret or fear. Mourn the loss of her love, and piece herself back together, in the piece and quiet of her mind – knowing that no-one would disturb her.


End file.
